


Soft Lights

by LuvEwan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Drama, Gen, Like it’s so soft, Vignette, soft fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuvEwan/pseuds/LuvEwan
Summary: Qui-Gon returns from a long, difficult solo mission and finds comfort in Obi-Wan’s presence. Total self-indulgent gen smooshiness.





	Soft Lights

**Author's Note:**

> So many hugs and thanks to outpastthemoat and Tohje for giving encouragement.

Qui-Gon Jinn was tired. Sometimes he thought his Master has been right—-he wasn’t quite suited to the rigors of Jedi life. Dooku could walk away from devastation and leave the memories behind, like so much dust flicked off his cloak. A Jedi’s heart, after all, should be impenetrable. 

And Qui-Gon knew that Dooku possessed a Jedi’s heart. 

It had never been as easy for Qui-Gon to move on. He sat at the smeared little window on the public transport and watched Coruscant’s familiar atmosphere materialize, an electric maze of seething orange light imbedded in deepest black. He should have felt relief, returning home after nearly two months. Yet his mind, his porous and traitorous heart, was caught up in the failed mission. The dead. The eyes.

His tunics still smelled of smoke. 

He had not eaten in days, but a sour weight laid heavy in the pit of his stomach, and when the attendant walked by, he declined the offered refreshments, except water, which he drank quickly. The taste of smoke, too, lingered at the back of his throat. 

He wondered what he would have been, if the Jedi had not found him. Where might he be, if his mind was shaped by a family, a typical life? Surely his heart would be less bruised as a farmer, or carpenter, or hermit.

The Force’s music was heard by non-Jedi. He could imagine himself content as many things. 

Qui-Gon was only fourteen the first time he saw a man die. He stayed awake that night, meditating, seeking answers to questions he was too young to fully articulate. Obi-Wan killed men when he was twelve, truly a child, and by then Qui-Gon understood the conflict inside him from so long ago—Jedi could be a means of destruction, the Force could be used to extinguish life. Both ideas seemed anathema to the Code as Qui-Gon interpreted it, and he had laid awake that night, thinking of that innocent boy, killing out of necessity. 

He despaired that death could ever be necessary, though the logical part of him knew that it was. The death clinging to his robes was not necessary. 

It was senseless. He was tired, and it all seemed...senseless.

———

The streets were mostly deserted. He walked rather than hail an air car, hoping to clear the sullen fog from his head. 

——-

The Council would no doubt expect a report. An accounting of the assignment’s failure. Qui-Gon wanted to say “it was inevitable, as people are inevitably cruel to one another”, but he figured that would be testing the considerable patience they reserved for his eccentricities. 

———

He reached his quarters in the middle of the night. The halls were dimly illuminated and empty. Only cleaning droids passed him, whirring, unobtrusive. He sighed as he palmed the control and the door slid open. 

The main room was dark, but Obi-Wan always left a light on in the kitchen. Everything was in its place. Dooku often remarked that Qui-Gon, with his naturally unkempt nature, would someday be repaid with a messy apprentice of his own. Instead, he had been granted a tidy one. He knew if he left his dirt-caked rucksack by the door, Obi-Wan would take care of it come morning. Padawans tended to look after their Masters in that way, but the thought of Obi-Wan touching this pack that Qui-Gon had carried through such desolation was intolerable. He would keep it in his bedroom and send it to the cleaners later. 

He used the fresher, then peeled off his stale tunic and leggings. He badly needed a shower, but the sound of the water would wake Obi-Wan, who Qui-Gon could sense sleeping, a quiet and reassuring presence in the corner of his mind. He had missed his Padawan. Now that Obi-Wan was a senior apprentice, they spent more time apart, on separate missions, as Obi-Wan tested his skills and burgeoning independence. It was getting easier to envision his life after Obi-Wan. Being alone, again. He would return to these rooms after long missions and be greeted by absolute silence, would wake the next morning without warm tea or warm jokes waiting for him. 

He supposed the melancholic thought was shared by most Masters with Padawans nearing Knighthood, but for Qui-Gon, it seemed a certainty: he would not take another apprentice. He had seen enough children grow up too fast.

Other children not given the chance to grow up at all.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, seeking his center. Instead he saw fire, and unspeakable things. No, he could not cleanse the clinging scent of ash from his skin. He would not live by the laws of indifference, like Dooku, or even Yoda, who would urge him to release his sadness for those lost. 

He was sad, and tired.

His room was completely still, the bed neatly made with pillows arranged at the head. Obi-Wan. He always tried to be useful. Qui-Gon changed into his sleep clothes and then returned to the bed, studying the crisp corners of the duvet. He ran his fingers along the edge, and it felt cold. 

——

He had covered a young man’s body with his robe. If pressed, he could not say why, when so many other dead were left exposed. 

Except he had felt such sadness and dread when he saw the young man’s face. How many times had he dreamed of his Padawan’s death? 

——

Before he could register what he was doing, he had already walked down the hall to Obi-Wan’s room. Obi-Wan was curled in the middle of the sleep couch, moonlight falling across him from the window, and his thin Learner’s braid coiled beside him on the pillow. 

Qui-Gon watched the subtle rhythm of breath, in and out, willing himself to breathe as calmly, to be at peace. He could not save everyone. Ultimately, he could not save his Padawan. He did not believe in visions, but something about Obi-Wan made him feel helpless—something far off in the horizon, or, he hoped, just the vague worries of a guardian for their charge. Soon enough, Obi-Wan would be Knighted and their paths would diverge. 

His last Padawan could become a great Jedi Master, or he could die before he was given the chance. The will of the Force was as passionless as it was elusive. Would someone take a moment to cover Obi-Wan’s body, if he was felled in some battle, or explosion, or—

“Master?”

Obi-Wan’s sleep-heavy voice pulled him back from his morbid reverie. The younger man was propped on an elbow, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m sorry, I should have met you—“

Qui-Gon smiled and shook his head, sitting on the edge of the bed. The Force felt relaxed. He could sense Obi-Wan’s implicit trust in him. He braced his hand on the mattress and felt the warmth of the blankets, as Obi-Wan had likely been sleeping for hours already. “It is the middle of the night, young one. I would not expect you to.”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. He glanced at the window. The sky was still dark. Then he looked at Qui-Gon, and the moon’s glow reflected in his eyes, their color turning from grey to a luminous blue. He smiled. “Welcome back, Master.”

Qui-Gon reached out and braced a bare shoulder with his hand. He managed a brief, unsteady smile before leaning his head in, touching his brow to Obi-Wan’s and closing his eyes. He anchored himself to hope, to Light. He tried to remember that the Universe was not all corruption and death, just because as a Jedi he saw more of it than most. Obi-Wan’s surprise was a gentle ripple through their link, but his apprentice did not withdraw, or question him. So they sat that way, heads together, breathing in the night-hushed room, finding a shared peace in the Force, where they could always attain harmony with one another. 

Eventually, Qui-Gon moved enough to slide his fingers down the braid trailing from behind Obi-Wan’s ear. “Maybe I’ll trim this, hm? Just a little. Just so you don’t leave an old man alone too soon.” He chuckled, but there was too much truth in the words, and his voice sounded thick. He let the braid fall from his grasp, instead stroking the soft spikes of hair. Obi-Wan said nothing, sitting close, radiating patience and the affection that existed between them. He smelled like plain, Temple-issue soap, his skin warm from the blankets. “I remember when you were a child, you called for me in your sleep. After our first mission. Just once, and then never again. You learned so quickly what was expected of you. You adjusted to waking in strange places, always on the move.

“I should not tell you this, but I have called for you, when I’ve been dreaming, when we are separated by planets, or danger, illness. I suppose it’s fitting. In so many ways, you are more mature than I have ever been.” Qui-Gon swallowed against a rising lump in his throat.

“Master?” Obi-Wan said softly, brushing his fingers over Qui-Gon’s hand. 

“This was a...difficult assignment.” The room fleetingly smelled of smoke. He opened his eyes, and saw the gazes of the dead, felt the waste of young, extinguished life. The notion of returning to his own room filled him with dread. “I don’t suppose you want some company?”

Obi-Wan answered by lifting the blankets so Qui-Gon could settle in beside him. 

Qui-Gon laid flat on his back, inhaling and exhaling. His muscles ached. There wasn’t much room to spread his long limbs. “I’d forgotten how small these beds are.”

“Not everyone is as tall as a tree, Master,” Obi-Wan turned on his side to face Qui-Gon, balling his pillow under his head. 

“Ha,” Qui-Gon snorted. He studied Obi-Wan’s familiar features in the low light: slimmer jawline, more sober eyes. “How is it that after only two months, you look a year older?”

“Because I’m exceedingly mature, as you said.”

“Yes, of course. That must be it.”

Obi-Wan smiled at him. “I missed you. The Temple can be a boring place.”

Warmth spread in Qui-Gon’s chest. He patted Obi-Wan’s arm, then left his hand there, feeling the blood and life running beneath the sleepshirt and warm skin. 

_My Padawan_...and quieter, so that he could barely hear the words himself, in his own head, _my Obi-Wan. _

They did not talk about this, the occasional yearning for physical closeness, a reassurance that came in the form of touches. Neither of them remembered having parents or genetic family, of course. A Jedi did not ache for such things. No attachments. If he had to choose between saving Obi-Wan and an innocent, he would always choose the innocent. Was that how his Padawan would come to be another slain young man, bloodied in a field of dirt? He looked up in the dark bedroom, saw the dead boy again, but this time he wore Obi-Wan’s face, his grey eyes still. It was the inevitability of the feeling which disturbed him more than anything, tightening his chest. 

He closed his eyes and opened them again. The haunting image faded into shadow. He coughed, tried to brighten his voice. “I’m shocked. I thought you would be well-occupied with your friends. It’s rare you get to spend so long on-planet without your Master ordering you around.”

Obi-Wan laughed, a flash of white, slightly crooked teeth. He was not a gregarious person, instead prone to reflection, subtle gestures and expressions. Qui-Gon had noticed how Obi-Wan relaxed around him, joked more. 

And Qui-Gon, in turn, would say things to Obi-Wan he would never say to anyone else. Not even Master Yoda, or Mace. It was potentially dangerous, if one subscribed to the Code’s stance on attachment. 

Qui-Gon was not called a _maverick_ for nothing. 

“Garen is on an extended mission.” Obi-Wan answered, sounding tired again, “Bant is studying. She shared a meal with me the other day, but was mostly engrossed in her medical texts. I very nearly sent you a message on your comm, and then I remembered that I am not a green Padawan, requiring someone to entertain me. So I entertained myself.”

Qui-Gon smiled a little, caught between remembering that green, shy Padawan and this one. “What form did your entertainment take?”

Obi-Wan quirked his mouth and leaned his face into his pillow. “Ah...well...I practiced the Serene Mist kata for five hours.”

“Five hours?” Qui-Gon was nonplussed. “Padawan, you know that is an advanced level kata. We had only just begun to practice when I left.”

“I know, Master. But you were gone for quite a long time. And I did not realize it had been five hours, until Master Drallig hauled me out of the salles.”

Qui-Gon sank deeper into the pillow and shook his head. “What a sight _that_ must have been.” He laid there, drumming his laced fingers against his stomach. “You can always comm me, Padawan. No matter where I am. Even if I cannot answer. I,” He swallowed, “I would have liked to receive a message from you on that mission.”

Obi-Wan shifted closer, imperceptibly closer, an inch. Just enough for their shoulders to brush together. He took a moment to speak. “I had not heard from you. I knew it was a dangerous assignment...is that why I could not…”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon affirmed softly. He had taken the mission with the caveat that his Padawan stay behind. It was a precarious balance, teaching Obi-Wan to survive violent situations while also shielding him from the worst of what the Universe held. Yoda would chide him, remind Qui-Gon that even a Padawan should not be protected from those harshest truths.

But he did not regret leaving Obi-Wan here. How could he? He had returned to a slumbering apprentice. Safe. Untouched by the atrocities happening worlds away. 

Perhaps only this time, but he was grateful for it. 

“I didn’t mean to focus on the kata so stridently. But I was...worried. It was a suitable enough distraction.” Obi-Wan admitted.

Qui-Gon turned, stroking his palm along the sleep-mussed hair. “Your first solo mission...the transport to Coruscant was a day late, as you recall. No one had heard from you. I sat in the gardens that night. I had intended to meditate, release my foolish anxieties to the Force. Instead I sat there, in a place I had sat many times with you before, until dawn.”

Obi-Wan was quiet; Qui-Gon could feel the Force around his Padawan, soft lights, and he wanted to lean into the glow, where it was peaceful and good. He sensed Obi-Wan trying to control his surprised pleasure at the confession. 

It was Qui-Gon’s own fault. Dooku had been miserly with compliments. And he would have chewed off a finger before sharing any of his weaknesses with Qui-Gon. 

_“Coddle a Padawan and you weaken a Knight.”_

Obi-Wan lifted his head just as Qui-Gon slipped his arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. They  
settled into the half-embrace. Obi-Wan remained silent for so long that Qui-Gon thought he had fallen back to sleep, just like that, the side of his face against Qui-Gon’s chest. 

“It smells like…” 

Qui-Gon winced. He should have showered, exhaustion be damned. “Smoke, I know, I’m—“

“No,” Obi-Wan mumbled. “Gardens.”

He listened to Obi-Wan’s breathing as it returned to the cadence of sleep, felt the body in his arms relax. He brushed his lips along a warm temple, paused there, inhaling the scent of soap, skin.

And inexplicably, the Gardens.


End file.
